Wharfinger Yarns

AMARANTHINE
by: Ralph E. Ahseln  10/2011

Part 2

They came each day. Always at the end of the day.

Sometimes only one or two of them. On other days there would be a dozen or more. Standing there, quietly, with their eyes focused on the boat. Some had frowns on their faces, others had a slight smile, most of them, he noticed, had dull, blank, tired looking faces. The old Wharfinger figured that they were men and women who had just finished work and had come down to look at this beautiful craft. The word must have gone out that a Special kind of sailboat was in the marina. Even as tired as they must be, having worked all day, they wanted to be part of the action, part of the admiring crowd.

In the years he'd been around boats, especially sailboats, he'd come to know how people regarded them. The men always stood around dreamy eyed. If they had their wives with them, the gals always looked bored. Some guys were "kick the tire" types and would spend hours poking around a boat. Never really able to buy, just trying to act like a boat person. The old man figured that since this boat was so unusual, these people standing around in the parking lot, were like those regular Dock Walkers. Except.....

Except.... They didn't talk or move around like regular boat shoppers do. They didn't seem to want to come down or get close to the boat. They were a bunch of folks just standing around in a crowd, Looking for..."For What? " "Expecting something to happen?" He wondered. And another thing, there were SO MANY of them. Always in a crowd, always standing there....Looking.

He didn't know for sure, but AMARANTHINE must have a very large price tag. None of these folks could ever afford her. So, he figured, they just came to stare at something they couldn't have. He could see it in their eyes. They were dreamers...

Lately, one or two of them would slowly walk to the ramp gate, look like they wanted to walk down to the docks, but then they'd shake their heads, back away and leave. Occasionally, the old man heard faint whispers among some of the visitors, but he was never close enough to hear what they were saying. Mostly, they just stood and stared. It was getting to be a concern for the old man. Each day he'd go to the ramp and yell up to the people "The marina IS open. Come on down and look around." No one ever took him up on the invitation. Those having that faint smile on their faces would nod their heads like they had heard the old man, but they never made a move to come. "They must be really shy not to check out THIS pretty jewel" He laughed to himself. But here it was, a bright and glimmering wooden marvel, floating on her lines at Manger's Marina, Dock 'A', slip One. Open to the public, but a boat so beautiful that it intimidated the Dock Walkers.

It had been a long time since young Bill had piloted the boat into the marina. The old Wharfinger loved seeing it here, but the crowds were beginning to get on his nerves. Even Stubby refused to go outside when the people were there. The old man had called Gil Waynham at the sales office a half dozen times to find out if anyone was interested in the boat. Gil had answered each time with the same line. "I've had some interested buyers, but no one will check it out yet. I'll let you know if and when someone wants to look her over."

It sounded like a lame excuse to the old man. Surely, some of Gil's rich friends would be interested in the boat. There must be some kind of financial problem holding up the sale. Banks or owners making it difficult to move on a loan, it's registration or the title... something. "I'll bet the builder died and now the relatives are fighting over what to do with the boat." The old man mumbled. It was a common problem. He'd seen it a dozen times before. Boats had sat at the marina for months, sometimes years, while relatives and lawyers battled.

As the days dragged by, he began to notice that faces in the crowd were getting to be familiar to him. He'd seen some of them several times. He thought that he saw the young couple that had been there the first night, but he couldn't remember if the little girl had been with them. And there was an old woman with a bad wig. She was hard to miss. He'd seen her 4 or 5 times. He grumbled, "Why the heck is SHE here? She's too old to own a boat like this." Then he softened. "She's probably remembering a cruise she did when she was a young woman".

More and more recognizable individuals showed up. Each day, the same faces in the crowd. "That army kid?! He's been here each day for the last week. He's even beginning to nod when I talk." The Wharfinger told himself. "Next time I see him I'm going to personally invite him to come down". The old man chuckled at the thought.

The next evening, he walked up the ramp trying to locate the young soldier. Even though he was very close to the crowd, He didn't see him, but...Standing at the outer edge of the gathering was the little girl he seen the first night! The one holding hands with a young man and woman. Her parents, he guessed. The old man smiled and waved at her then began to walk over to her. As soon as she saw he was getting closer, she turned and ran away. Disappearing out past the parking lot and into the shadow of the buildings. He wanted to go after her, but with his bad legs, he'd knew he'd never catch up. As well, he thought, "I'd better stay close to the marina. Shouldn't leave it un-guarded with all these people around. Besides, her parents got to be close by. No one would let a child wander around these docks alone this late in the evening."

It was getting dark now. Every day at about this time, the crowd would slowly thin out and soon be gone. The old man could then walk back to the office for his dinner and a chat with Stubby. He couldn't stop thinking of the little girl. She was a pretty little thing, With her bright red hair and white skin. So white it was tinged with blue. He'd known a Scottish girl who looked like that. A real beauty with the typical Nordic-Germanic "Ginger" hair and skin the color of skimmed milk. Over millennia , Northern latitude peoples had lost some of the melanin that browned the skin of most of the world's population. The old man chuckled to himself. as he'd remembered a little saying ... " A redhead without freckles, is like the sky without stars! ". He really hoped she had freckles!

The old Wharfinger had trouble getting to sleep that night. Images of all those "familiar faces" he'd seen in the parking lot, kept coming into his mind's eye. He could remember each individual, each one of them! What clothes they wore, how their hair was combed, the look on their faces, how they moved (or didn't move). Close to midnight, he finally dropped off to sleep. It was a poor sleep though. He dreamed of those same people, but in his dream they were all trying to get on board Amaranthine. They were climbing over him, clawing their way up the hull and pushing into the cabin. They began to rip it apart. Each person breaking away large pieces of wood or bronze fittings. In his dream, he was trying to tell them not to rush and not to damage the beauty of the vessel. He would open his mouth shouting, but no sound came out. Now, HE was the silent one watching.

The next day would mean three weeks the boat had been at its slip. The old Wharfinger had, by this time, inspected every space in Amaranthine. Everything about her was as close to perfect as it could be. From the Galley to the engine compartment, it had been built with care. As Billy had said, the Saloon was all cedar. It had been treated in some way so the wood’s odor was faint. Every other space had bulkheads of different exotic woods. Some with swirls and knots, other compartments with delicate quarter sawn board. No screw or nail head was to be seen. What metal was on the boat, weather deck or down below, was solid bronze. Each piece cast and turned into individual works of art. No two were the same design but all were tastefully coordinated. The builder had planned that every tiny part should come together like some giant jig-saw puzzle. When he finished, it would be an awe inspiring sculpture. Then, there was that wheel! He recognized it to be Pecan wood. A special piece for sure. Honey colored with streaks of reddish brown. But, the carvings! They were oddly, inspired. What the old man had first thought to be vines cascading down the spokes, were, in fact, kind of flowers. Long hanging FLOWERS!. They hung down the spokes looking like the way they used to fix young women’s hair. Long draping “tubes” of curls. “Mary Pickford ! yes, like Mary Pickford’s hair ! “ the old man shouted . The wheel spokes was covered with carved flowers that fell in long draping curls, just like …..!! An electric shock raced through him!

That little girl standing with her parents in the crowd, had long... red …..Mary Pickford curls !

(To be continued... )
Next: Part Three

Part 1

Part 3